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Sticky
Fingers
Oh the
sweet innocence of youth. The laughter of neighbourhood children splashing
in my backyard paddling pool last week was like music to my ears. Their
tanned perfect skin, their toothless grins, the way they'd thank me for the
Kool-Aid I'd bring out in plastic tumblers thus making me a goddess in my
young sons' lives. I would watch them play, splash, wrestle and cheer as
the garden hose was passed back and forth to make these early summer days
the stuff kids remember the rest of their lives. What a great group of
kids. So polite with their "Yes, ma'am's" and "Thank you, ma'ams" as I'd
open a new box of freezer pops in a rainbow of colours to half melt all over
their hands and chins. It reminded me of my days as a seven year old,
running through sprinklers with my best friends, eating watermelon by the
bushels, wearing my Wonder Woman bikini and giggling at the opposite sex as
they'd ride by on their bicycles and call us names like "Poo-poo face".
That
was until one of those crafty rat bastards stole my tips from my purse and
rummaged through my underwear drawer.
Criminals should look like criminals and there should be an age limit for
them in my book. If you have to be 18 to drink in the United Kingdom and 21
to drink here, then by all means the crooks and felons should come somewhere
between those numbers if they're going to steal from me. I want them to be
obvious. Black and white striped shirts and black face masks should be
required. All criminals should carry a dirty bag over a shoulder clearly
marked as "booty". I'll be damned if I'm ready for a nine year old in
Spiderman swim trunks fresh off of training wheels and not yet even versed
in his multiplication tables to knick my spare cash.
But
yet it happened. Thursday I made a mere $15 at work and with no groceries
in the house I had planned to take my sons to the local root beer stand for
dinner. After shooing away the horde of neighbour kids (or should I say
"posse of vigilantes"), I retrieved my purse to find it a lot lighter than
it was just an hour earlier. $10 lighter to be exact. Normally finding the
human race, especially those who have not lived an entire decade, to be
honest and upstanding I checked my bedroom thinking I had left it on the
nightstand. Lo and behold, my drawers were opened and half of my underwear
drawer was now scattered on the floor. Yes, even the vanilla satchel I use
for that "just laundered" feeling. So what does a woman of my backbone and
strength do? I cry like a baby. I didn't rush out to find the perpetrator
(or "perp" as they call them on law enforcement television), there was no
gnashing of teeth and screaming of "You will RUE the day you steal from
me!!" Nope, I just sat on my bed, feeling suckered, used and stretched too
thin to do anything but cry.
It
took me til Saturday to get enough courage to face the tiny punk whom my
eldest son said had committed the crime. The good thing about baby thieves
is that they like to talk about their sprees and show their loot to their
friends, so word quickly got back to my house. Hell, all I could think of
was how, when my youngest sister was that age, we could still convince her
to trade a dollar bill for two quarters because two was greater than one.
But there I stood on my back deck, reigning tall and not crumpled like the
victim I was feeling. I announced to Baby Face Nelson that the jig was up
and I wanted my money back "NOW!" and wouldn't move til it was returned. I
got stares and a few shrugs of the shoulders. Obviously this lot had done
some hard time and wasn't going to break under my evil eye alone. So I
kicked everyone off my property, and this had little merit as they all just
walked to the property line to sit and play with their action figures. I
remained without my cash while they remained as happy and carefree as the
day they were born… which they probably can still remember.
I had
many plans going through my head, but lacked the maturity and nerve to
deliver them. I never had to deal with robbery before, especially when it
dealt with con-artists wearing Blue's Clues band-aids on their owwies.
Worse yet, I was concerned that if I didn't take initiative I'd be found
weak in the eyes of my sons. Or, if I did take initiative, the thugs may
kick their asses. It truly was a struggle between good and evil and I
finally knew just what I had to do.
Let
someone else deal with it.
Enter
my children's father who resembles Bruce Willis and doesn't give two shits
about cursing loudly in front of children while holding his third or fourth
beer. Shaved head, ragged goatee, rust stained muscle shirt and
kick-your-ass Doc Martin boots… he's what a convict should look like sans
mask and prison number. Within two minutes he had taken one of the
neighbour boy's walkie talkies and demanded to know where the money was. He
was quickly given my ten plus an extra $4. Evidently it was an interest
gaining theft.
Crisis
handled, except for my new found wariness of toddlers. I can't help but
wonder what they would have used my tip money for. Maybe a second grade
hooker, or some premium basement lab cut pixie stix. Try as I might, I just
can't believe they were saving it for a college education. |
